Silent Hill: The Clown
by The Grey Ghoul
Summary: Why so...silent?


chapter 1 – down the rabbit hole

hello, boys and girls. did ya miss Me? haha haha. it seems I'm not forgotten after all.

(….)

now, uh, if you could find it in your precious, bloodthirsty little hearts to do so, you'll have to forgive Me for this. ahem. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not looking My best.

(….)

you see, they didn't let Me have any paints. I don't have My clothes, (I'm not naked. don't go there, boys and girls).

(….)

I'd give you My card, but they don't let Me have those either. all I did was take a deck of cards, melted plastic from a prison issued toothbrush, make a shiv, and stick ol' mitch in his stomach. you know, I really like ol' mitch. always thought I was funny. liked My jokes, he did. he laughed so hard he cried. he was laughing so hard he was grinning from ear to ear. he was laughing so hard he _bust_ a _gut_. oh wait. hehehe. that was Me.

see, he was one of My lawyers. I've talked with many of them. I had a whole pack of them, the best criminal defense lawyers in the country. some were even doing it pro bono, just because the publicity they would get out of defending Me was priceless. plus I had no money. well, I did…but it was burning a hole through My pocket…so I burned _it_.

but since what happened to ol' mitch, I haven't seen too many of these lawyers. not-a-one. guess not everyone deserves a defense after all. 'the judge will go easy on You, Joe. we're just going to plead guilty by reason of insanity.'

"you mean you're going to tell them I'm crazy."

'exactly.'

"There's just one thing wrong with that."

'what's that?'

"I'm not crazy."

mitch immediately grew uncomfortable. he didn't like disagreeing with Me, didn't like displeasing Me. as My lawyer, with Me as a client, it was important for him to be on the same page. he tried getting Me on board. 'Joe, based on the evidence, they're considering trying You in federal court. killing the judge, the commissioner, police officers, attempted mass murder on the high seas—it's the death penalty for all of that. the only way to commute it down to life in prison, or if You're lucky, life in arkham asylum, is to claim insanity.'

"I'm not crazy. no one will believe I'm crazy."

'well, they might not, since Batman is testifying against You for the state. which is why it's really important to show them, through correction officer and guard testimonies, that You really are a danger to Yourself and those around You. keep up appearances.'

"Could I be crazy enough to attack My own lawyer?"

ol' mitch's brows furrowed together. 'excuse me?'

the toothbrush was really beginning to itch beneath the skin of My upper arm, the inner side. it felt great to pull it out. I'd put it there two days ago instead of suitcasing it (that's what they call shoving something up your anal cavity). droplets of blood arced through the air like a stream of cardinals when I yanked it out. I though ol' mitch would have a heart attack when he saw it. that didn't change when the toothbrush-shiv disappeared into his fat gut with a squelch. it got sucked out of My hand by the fat, like his belly had grown fingers and pulled My weapon away. his gut was much better fighter than he was.

that was at blackgate penitentiary. now I'm at arkham asylum, in the super-max wing. solitary, twenty-four-seven. no noises, no human contact, hhrrrrmm, _nada. _that is, except for you, little children.

the last a-_dult_ I talked to didn't agree to call Me Joker. here, at arkham, they all refuse to call Me Joker. (you can call Me Uncle Joker, okay?)

(….)

anyway, here's the thing: they never come right out and say what they're really thinking. _Your name is not Joker, so I'm not going to call You that._ what's wrong with a little, hones-tee? I've never lied to anyone, have I? I'd appreciate the same courtesy.

_that kind of argumentativeness isn't conducive to the successful stabilization of Your mental health, mr. napier._ that's a mouthful, isn't it, kids? but that's what doc harls said to Me on our first session. hmm. she said it with a straight face too. didn't stutter, didn't trip over her twisting tongue and pale rose lips. I have to admit, it was fascinating, really.

actually, doc harls is _beau_tiful. she's got that kind of classy look of a fifties broad, pointy chin, sharp, slightly upturned nose, big blue eyes and a thin waist, smooth, slender legs that taper into dainty ankles...I don't know how I missed it those first few sessions, while she was trying to determine if it was safe to keep Me in solitary. maybe it was her stoic demeanor, a kind of, uh, robotic precision to her movements, her words, like she's reading from a script. I can tell she's been coached by a superior. probably a _man_. the medical field is still dominated by men, you know. she's the kind of woman who's detached from her own body, has no problem getting on her back before getting ahead. an ambitious whore. hahahaha. can't make these oxy-_morons_ up, boys and girls. sometimes the joke creates itself—blooms, like a cherry blossom—out of a little thing called real life.

I knew right away she was inexperienced—skilled, calculated, brilliant—but inexperienced. see, there's a difference, between reading a textbook and applying what you've learned. there's a _diff_erence between sitting in a cool, clean office and declaring _war_, and being in the field and shooting someone dead-as-a-doornail with your ar-15.

she showed Me pictures of this joe napier.

or jack.

joe or jack. it doesn't matter. doc harls says he's _Me._ but I don't know any joe. or jack or john or jim or tim or tom or anyone. sure, he has My face. handsome devil, just like Me. that's a fact, I'm just saying.

one difference is, he doesn't have the scars. doesn't look like he's got much to smile about, either, miserable impostor scum. it's gotta be some kind of, uh, photoshopped image. that can't be Me. it's not Me. it's not.

I gotta say, I don't remember much of My past. I don't remember jack. and anything I've heard about him makes Me despise him. can't tell you how much I despise cowardice. what's the point of living and hiding who you really are?

but there _is_ one thing I heard that made Me like him, just a little. jack killed his father. now, that, I can understand. see, I hated My father too.

anyway, doc harls keeps trying to help Me remember things. and sometimes I do. I start believing My own lies.

(I never lie, really. don't you trust me?)

(I lie all the time, every word out of My mouth is a lie)

I can tell doc harls doesn't believe Me. maybe it's because My story changes with every session. one day I'm married and have two _beau_tiful little kiddies, like _you_. when I found My wife and kids dead one day with their faces carved up by her jealous ex, I went mad and cut up My own face to match theirs. but a few years before that, I was a single loner and a shy virgin and a group of psychotic thugs who hated Me at college kidnapped Me and tortured Me and defaced Me. but years before _that_, when I was a kid—a little pudgy baby—My mother, who was addicted to crack and meth while she was pregnant with me, couldn't get Me to stop crying. she tried feeding Me, changing Me, shaking Me, and nothing worked, because _I _was addicted _too_. My body was in pain from withdrawal, and I needed drugs instead of milk, instead of formula. I cried and cried and wanted someone to _take_ My _pain_ a-_way_. but she didn't know how. she didn't know I was addicted too, just like her. we could have been mother and son, a pair of addicts. it would have been glorious, no_to_rious, oedipal, ro_man_tic. but she just got angry. she became enraged when I wouldn't stop crying, not for hours. six hours, ten hours, seven-_teen _hours. breathless, hoarse, thirsty, dying and still, I wouldn't stop. so she gave Me something to cry about. story goes that she used a piece of glass from a broken beer bottle. whatever was around. it really happened.

I almost had doc harls with that last one.

(had you too, boys and girls, didn't I? hehehe hahaha)

(….)

anyway I could see from that flicker of discomfort in her pale blue eyes, the way she stopped writing notes, spellbound by My words, My voice—I saw it. I saw that she felt _bad _for Me.

but people can't handle the truth. that's just another Joke that life has to offer. and the truth, boys and girls? wanna hear it?

(….)

can't hear you, what was that?

(….)

hmmm, well, here it is anyway:

My memories…are gone. shed away like snakeskin. can't, uh, go crawling back in, can I? they don't fit Me anymore. I've outgrown them. they don't hold Me in anymore. I'm not caged. I'm _free. _up here, in here (I'm pointing to My head) I'm free. I'm a free (…eak) man. and freeak-dom is power, children.

and even though I'm here, in a dark hole at arkham asylum, with all you little kiddie voices keeping Me company, I'm waiting. waiting for when My skin hardens again into scales of protection. I'll need them, the next time I meet Batman. I sigh every time I think of Him. I've tasted what it's like to be around Him and now I'm addicted. I can't get enough. I have to admit, I was not expecting someone like Him. He stole My heart, that one. I was hoping He'd come to visit. six months later, and it looks like Batman's got stage fright. that depresses Me. We had so much fun, the both of Us, playing tag all over gotham.

now listen to Me, going on and on. I know you have things to say, I can hear you. let it all out, children. Uncle Joker's listening…what's that kiddies? what are you whispering to Me?

(….)

I can't hear you. you're going to have to stop talking so quietly. you're going to have to stop talking all at once. one at a time, everyone will get a turn with your favorite Uncle Joker! I promise. that hole looks deep and dark and wet, and you're so far away. I'm sticking My head way inside and it smells like sulfur and cut up, rotten intestines and wood smoke.

(….)

speak up, little, precious, innocent kiddies, so Uncle Joker can hear you. all those explosions and gun fights…makes a man go a little deaf, y'know? help Me tune in to your station, all I hear is static. and it's quiet and boring here, I could use some entertainment. Sing a song for Me, at least.

(….)

I can't leave this room, you know…especially since I found those chains. I didn't put them there.

two hundred pounds of irons chains and padlocks netted over the metal door.

there's a little light in here—from the bright red glow of the security camera in the corner of the room.

I've spent hours trying to get past these chains. My body is bruised in stitch patterns from throwing Myself against the door. I think two of My fingers are broken. My hands are cut and bleeding.

you thought I couldn't make My own paint, didn't you, kids?

The arkham staff has been trying to get into the room for a few days. doc harls is leading the charge. I can see the orderlies and nurses through a small hole in the rusted food slot.

the door's chained shut, rusted shut, and they can't get in.

from what I've heard them say, they can't see inside either. the camera isn't working.

they're scared to open it. afraid that I have a tendency to harm Myself that they didn't notice. doc harls is sweatin' the whole thing. I can see her face through the tiny little hole, flushed red, hair coming loose, strand by golden strand.

they bring their buzz saws, but it doesn't work. the door is made of inches of solid steel and operated with hydraulics. even after working for hours and replacing heated equipment over and over, they barely make a dent.

what's that children?

are you calling me?

(….)

is that a yes?

(….)

blink once for yes, twice for no. (not that I can see you anyway.)

(….)

doc harlz calls out to Me every now and then, when the noises fade. I watch her worried face through the tiny hole, watch men in hard hats and neon vests walk by her as they work.

well, they really are taking their sweet time, aren't they? they'll probably be at it when I get back.

I sit in the edge of the hole, tuck My legs in and turn around like I'm going down a water slide. look out below kids! Here comes your favorite Uncle in the whole wide world.

_HA HA HA HO HO HA HAHA HA HA HEHE HA HA_

"Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes another... If I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice!"

– Joker in _T__he Killing Joke_

_HA HA HA HO HO HA HAHA HA HA HEHE HA HA_

_Author's Note: It's been a while since I wrote Joker POV. Sorry if I'm rusty. _

_Thanks to Little Kunai for the suggestion of the Joker appearing in Silent Hill. _

_While slipping the Joker into my other crossover, _Silent Hill: The Bat,_ would have been too predictable, I've actually resisted doing a crossover featuring the Joker in Silent Hill because of two reasons. _

_One, another one already exists. After browsing over it, I realized it was an anecdotal origin story entitled The Lost Days, by snarryvader81. So, that being said, my story is distinct from that one. Most of you already know I did a Joker origins story. _

_And two, the Joker wouldn't be frightened by Silent Hill or any of its monsters. Which makes trying to creep the Joker out an exercise in futility. But that doesn't mean Silent Hill can't compel the Joker in some way. Let's find out together what that could be. On the off-chance that this becomes too graphic or sexual in nature,_ _I might change the rating to M_._ But I do know there are young people reading this story, so I'll try to censor myself if I can without sacrificing the plot, characterization, or story itself. _

_There is something else I want to mention. This crossover is based on TDK and Silent Hill 4: The Room, for Playstation 2. The Room is very basic and totally brilliant. There's this extremely normal guy and he's locked inside his apartment. Heavy chains have magically appeared on the inside of his door. The windows are jammed shut, his phone doesn't work and he has no contact with the outside world. The only way in and out is a hole in the wall. And the hole leads to a little town called… Do I have to say it?_


End file.
